Here's how it starts, and if you'd like to read more, let me know!
The Extra day.
The kitchen was refreshingly peaceful and smelled of absence. Cathy knew it was only clean and ordered because they’d been away for two weeks and had got back late last night, too late to do any damage. She felt she should apologise; its holiday was over now as well. Nine o’clock, the horde would be awake at any moment.
There was no bread but there was a packet of pancake mix and two eggs lurking guiltily in the fridge. If they were ok, then they’d be condemned to breakfast.
Nine-seventeen, gosh, they were late, must be the jet lag. It had been a nice break, but relaxation with three kids and Mike stressing about possible redundancy would have challenged the Orient Express, and was positively unfair on a self catering cottage in the south of France. It had rained, which Mike had taken as both a portent of doom and a personal insult. She pictured him standing on the balcony, morosely watching the sky as if he expected locusts next.
What was it her mother used to say? 'You need a holiday to get over a holiday.' A truism Cathy shuddered to hear her self utter.
Nine twenty-three, they really were sleepy. The eggs proved respectable and Cathy began whisking. Mum would not have approved of packet mix pancakes, whatever Betty Crocker blithely promised. Her lips would have narrowed to their vanishing point on seeing the holiday laundry not immediately set to wash, especially as it had been dumped next to the pile dating from the week before they’d gone away.
'I always used to wish for a day in the week only I knew about,’ Cathy remembered her Mum saying as she stood in her immaculate kitchen and baked for the week ahead. For the week! Cathy’s lot were lucky if they all got packed lunches these days, each stuffed with e-numbers and crisps. She looked guilty at the bread maker, smoothie maker and kitchen aid, all filmed with dust.
‘You never had to work full time just to help pay the mortgage.' Cathy muttered. ‘I needed an extra day just to make sure the bins get emptied.’ Let alone find time to write the novel she'd been working on for two years. Or indeed, start it.
Nine thirty-seven, now she was getting worried.